


How I met your father

by Syrena_of_the_lake



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dementia, F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:31:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/pseuds/Syrena_of_the_lake
Summary: Abigail told a different story every time. Once or twice, it was even the truth. Henry may have been right about the ending, but denouements had never been Abigail’s favorite part of books.





	How I met your father

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Karios](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy, Karios! It’s a pleasure writing for you :-)

“How exactly did you meet?”

It must have been the tenth time Abigail had heard the question that shift, but never with such a disapproving inflection. The other nurses were vicariously happy, amused, admiring or outright jealous (Henry did rather draw the eye, Abigail had to admit — he had certainly drawn hers), but not Matron Candace Wallace. 

Matron did not approve of fraternization. Or laughter. Or babies. Or... anything, really. Particularly not Doctor Morgan.

So Abigail laughed aloud and patted little Abe on the bottom and bounced him until he hiccoughed happily. “This little man brought us together,” she announced with perhaps more satisfaction than was ladylike. “Best day of my life, finding the two of them.”

“Really.” Matron looked down her drawbridge of a nose. Abe reached for it, and Matron lurched away from his tiny grasping fist.

There was a lovely metaphor there — of reaching out to grasp the things you wanted most in the world, no matter how bleak the surroundings and no matter what the world had to say about it — but Abigail rather thought it would be lost on Matron. She’d save the observation for Henry, when their shifts ended in the wee hours of the morning. 

If they could keep from collapsing into each other’s arms out of sheer weariness, Abigail intended to give him a practical demonstration.

Abe squirmed in her arms, and she nuzzled his nose. “You’re our little matchmaker, aren’t you, my darling?” she whispered. “You won’t remember this when you’re older, but I’ll tell you the story. By then it will be a long and beautiful one, you’ll see.” 

* * *

Abe was scowling at his homework again. The sight was so familiar and endearing that it made Henry pause mid-motion, tie dangling from his fingertips. 

“I hope you’re not having trouble in history class,” Henry couldn’t help teasing. “Your old man might have a heart attack.”

“ _Dad_.”

Only eleven years old and Abe had the petulant tone down perfectly; Henry could only imagine how it would evolve during the dreaded teenage years.

It never ceased to amaze him, how quickly children aged. It made every moment precious.

“Can I help?” he offered.

Abe chewed on his pencil in careful deliberation. “I’m supposed to write a report.”

“I’m aces at those.”

“ _Dad_.” Ah, there it was again. Henry hid a smile. “No one says that anymore.” Abe rolled his eyes.

Henry gave up on his tie and sat down at the table. “So what’s the report about?”

“Family history.”

Henry’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead. “Ah. Hmm.”

Abe waved a hand and looked older than his age as he replied, “Don’t worry about the current family tree, I’ve got that stuff down. Mr. Bismarck wants us to collect anecdotes, interviews and that kind of thing. We’re supposed to write The Story of Our Family Lives.” He looked dubious. “And, well, no offense, Dad, but aside from the stuff I can’t talk about, you and Mom really aren’t that interesting.”

Henry threw his head back and laughed. “I suppose that’s true from your perspective,” he allowed, “because you see only the small daily things. Boiled eggs, car repairs, weekend trips to the beach — am I right?”

Abe nodded warily.

“You’re not wrong,” Henry reassured him. “Those are all the details that make up a life — and they don’t necessarily make an exciting story. Maybe you’re a bit jaded, having experienced more drama than most families have in generations.” Henry suppressed the knee-jerk reaction of guilt. They were a happy family, here and now, and that was what mattered. “So let’s look at things from a different point of view. You’ve heard your mother’s stories about how we met.”

Abe grinned. Abigail’s stories were family lore by this point. The more people asked, the more creative her answers had become. All her stories were based on at least a grain of truth, but she had a flair for building sandcastles out of those grains.

“That’s the sort of thing your Mr. Bismarck is looking for, I’d wager.”

Looking inspired, Abe started scribbling madly in his notebook. “Mom’s telling the boating accident story these days, right? That’s _perfect_!”

Henry’s sudden misgivings had nothing to do with self-preservation, except of his dignity. “Ah, Abraham, perhaps—”

“Don’t worry, Dad, I’ll leave out the part about skinny dipping.” Abe grinned. “But you know Mom tells it anyway, right?”

* * *

“So how did you two meet?”

Susie Midland was all bouncy blonde curls, candy-colored taffeta, and sherry-sweet manners, and Abigail couldn’t stand her.

But it was only neighborly to accept her invitation, and besides — Abigail figured an outing or two would go a long way towards making their little family part of the background rather than the neighborhood’s newest curiosity.

“I mean, you’re just too-too, really,” Susie simpered.

Henry studied their hostess, as if bemused by an anomalous bacterial specimen. That left the answering to Abigail, which was probably for the best in any case. Henry had a tendency to over-elaborate his lies. 

“In a museum,” confided Abigail, “in front of a portrait of an heiress painted by her Latin lover.”

“Oh! Oh my. My, my!” Susie fanned herself. “How exotic.”

“The museum was in New York,” Henry corrected.

“How exotic!” Susie repeated.

Henry’s pleading glance did more to reassure Abigail than all their late-night conversations before their hasty move to the Midwest. So they had to live under new names. They were still _Henry_ and _Abigail_.

“Tell me more, Abby,” Susie demanded, having recovered from her self-inflicted vapors, as Henry would doubtless call it. 

“Well,” Abigail grinned and leaned forward as if to impart a confidence, “Hank was quite dashing in a tuxedo, and I had a divine little black dress, and we both had darted inside to keep out of the rain...”

* * *

In the Seventies, the lies grew bolder, along with the patterns on Henry’s ties.

“ _How_ did you tell them we met?” Henry’s voice cracked like it hadn’t in well over a century.

Abigail smiled impishly. “We were both nude models for a painter in Paris.”

“Good God, Abigail. That was one time—!”

Teasing Henry was one thing that never got old, and Abigail had a nearly inexhaustible supply of stories to tease him with. And to use as a cover for their shifting identities as they moved across the country, fleeing the march of time — or rather, the lack thereof in Henry’s case.

At first she reveled in the telling. It was a source of comfort, in a way. She had so many wonderful stories to tell, and Abigail knew few other couples could have packed so much living and loving into so few years. Life with Henry had given her a unique perspective on time. He had so much of it stretching before him, and she wanted to make every moment together shine like a beacon in his memory for centuries to come.

But little by little, like a rock worn by too much water, the pattern of truth-in-lies dug grooves in her soul. It hurt, although there was still beauty in it. 

She didn’t mind moving from place to place and reinventing their lives when Henry had an Incident. She was too grateful, every time, that he came back at all. She knew he saw his condition as a curse, but to Abigail it was a blessing that she could never lose him.

But when the paranoia set in and he insisted on moving because the lines in his face weren’t set deeply enough, or because the rain washed the gray out of his hair in front of an observant acquaintance... that was getting old, fast.

And so would Abigail, in the not too distant future. Whether she and Henry admitted it to themselves or not.

* * *

“How ever did you meet your husband?” 

Abigail wasn’t sure she cared for her colleague’s tone. The frank admiration of Henry’s physique was nothing she hadn’t heard before, but the note of surprise was new.

Like that gray hair she kept dyeing. Abigail hadn’t told Henry; she was used to keeping secrets — just not usually from her own husband. He’d notice the changes eventually, but there was no reason to hasten that day, she reasoned.

“I met him on a train,” Abigail answered, “one of those lovely old-fashioned ones with wood paneling and velvet cushions. My Harry is rather old-fashioned himself, you know.” She laughed lightly.

“That explains it,” the doctor laughed in response.

Abigail’s smile felt suddenly brittle.

The doctor blushed (he was oh so young himself — young like Henry, only he didn’t have Henry’s hard-won wisdom or patience — and good Lord but _what was his name?_ ). He opened his mouth, and Abigail could just see the awkward apologies hovering on his tongue, and she hurried to forestall it.

Henry had called her unfailingly kind. But Abigail feared she was just a coward.

“Yes, he and I have so many shared interests. We love all the same music, we have the same taste in fashion and architecture... it gives us so many things to talk about.” She knew her voice was too shrill, too painfully enthusiastic... and the doctor’s answering smile (Patterson? Peterson?) was halfway between relieved and pitying.

It hurt. Abigail could admit that to herself, if not to Henry. But compared to the pain of watching him die, over and over, each time fearing he might not come back?

It was a small sacrifice, one she was prepared to make time and again, for as long as they had together.

“I’m lucky my husband has such good taste,” Abigail finished pertly, holding her head high.

Doctor Peterson-Patterson’s smile grew more genuine. “He certainly does,” he said, and was that admiration in his voice?

Well, would wonders never cease. If the young doctor was going to make puppy-dog eyes at her, the least she could do was learn his name.

(It was Peterson. Bless these Midwesterners and their predictable Scandinavian names.)

As the weeks went on, Abigail would tell Henry about young Peterson’s blunders and blushes, for he was truly a sweet boy, if a bit awkward in conversation. 

But she never mentioned the way she kept forgetting his name.

* * *

“How did you meet your husband?” The doctor’s voice was gentle, his fingers steady on her wrist.

Abigail’s mind stalled. There were so many stories, so many possible answers — how would she ever remember which ones were safe to tell? She pressed her lips together to stop the trembling.

The doctor naturally mistook her hesitation for another symptom. “Do you remember your husband, Mrs. Morgan?”

What an inane question. She wouldn’t be here if she didn’t. “He died many years ago,” she answered entirely truthfully. _Those_ memories came readily. And wasn’t that an awful, unfair cheat — having so many memories of death clear and sharp when all she wanted was to remember their _life_ together?

That life was over now. The memories were all she had left — and soon enough, she would leave them behind as well. Abigail didn’t need a doctor to tell her the signs. 

“You don’t have to coddle me, Doctor Peterson,” she snapped, when the silence stretched on too long. “I know what dentition does to the brain.”

“Dementia,” the doctor corrected softly, “and my name is Doctor Tanner.”

Abigail closed her eyes briefly. “Yes, of course,” she murmured. 

“Do you have family to take care of you, Mrs. Heinrickson?”

It was foolish of her, perhaps, to keep Henry’s name in any respect. She’d have to abandon it too, lest Henry and Abe track her down. One more thing to remember...

“No,” she answered belatedly. “I have no one. Not anymore.” 

She had made sure of that, while she could still think clearly enough to make her preparations.

The future stretching before her was not one Abigail wanted. Already she ached to return to her husband and son, no matter what people thought of the old lady with her young lover.

But she could no longer trust herself to keep Henry’s secret. And this was the only way she could think of to protect him. Better for him to remember her forever as who she had been than be haunted by the memory of blank eyes — or worse, inadvertent betrayal. Abigail refused to be another Nora. 

Henry never would have let her go, of course, had he known. Abigail knew him too well — he would only put himself at risk trying to save her from the inevitable. Like his doctor friend, the one with tuberculosis, what was his name? Surely not Peterson?

The doctor — also not Peterson, bless the dear boy — cleared his throat. “I can recommend several good facilities, Mrs. Hein—”

Abigail cut him off before he could finish the name. Suddenly, any name other than her own grated on her ears like ground glass. 

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she said. But the tears in her eyes betrayed her... as did her medical training. She wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t see through her own lies. “For now,” she amended. 

“And what about next month, and the month after that?” 

Always before, Abigail had a ready answer or deflection for any question aimed her way, no matter how impertinent. (The more, the better, she used to say; Henry said she was impertinent enough for both of them, and Abe called them two peas in a pod.)

Now, her thoughts chased themselves around like a hound lost in a cornfield — trampling, scattering precious memories in their wake. Even her metaphors no longer held together.

“I have time,” she finally answered, because it was something Henry always said.

And they both knew it was no answer at all.

* * *

“Tell me, Mrs. Morgan, just how did you meet your remarkable husband?”

Abigail stalled, looking for a weapon, wishing she didn’t live so close to water. After so many years with Henry, it was habit. But maybe this stranger didn’t come back in water. Maybe he didn’t come back at all, which would make her a murderer — but no, she had seen him die, hadn’t she?

Hadn’t she?

He was frowning at her now. “You will tell me.”

For the first time, Abigail blessed the lesions on her brain, the haze over her memory that kept her from really knowing truth from lie. She _would_ tell this stranger everything — every maddeningly contradictory thing she could think of, real or imagined. Let him get lost in the same labyrinth and be damned. 

“I met Henry in the war,” she said proudly. “He was skinny dipping and my boat overturned in the middle of the museum, by a nude portrait of a socialite in love with a painter. And there was a murder on the train and Henry solved it, and we saved a baby.”

The stranger (had he told her his name?) frowned at her in confusion. Triumph swelled in Abigail’s breast. She could do this, she could save Henry-Harry-Hank-Murray-Morgan-Morrison and their darling Abe — 

The stranger took out a knife. “Don’t lie to me,” he warned.

Euphoria. Terror. A manic blend of both. Abigail laughed in his face. “I’m not lying,” she gasped, and the sheer novelty of it buoyed her. “We met in a train station on a boat in a museum, we fell in love in England France New York Hungary Germany South America, and that was just the start, and we danced on the barbed wire and the water and the marble floor—” Abigail let the words flow unchecked like water bursting from a dam. It was all true, and all lies, and she didn’t know the difference anymore, and he would never learn anything from her!

... Except he would. He had all the time in the world, and he would trick her or she would forget to be careful or her words would betray her — no, betray Henry — oh God there was too much _time_ —

They were in a car. How did he get her in a car? They were driving and driving and she could hear herself talking but didn’t know what she was saying and —

She reached over and wrenched the wheel.

The sky was below her above her all around her, but oh she had been a nurse and knew the symptoms and she wasn’t dying yet.

“Tell me how to find him,” the stranger hissed.

Abigail held his gaze. Her fingers held his knife. Henry had died a hundred, maybe a thousand times, so many, too many, so often to protect others. Abigail only had one chance to protect him.

She took it.

* * *

“So how did you and Abigail meet?” Jo’s voice was gentle and unaccountably accepting.

“You... you believe me?” Henry didn’t quite dare to meet her eyes.

She hesitated, but not for long. “I’m getting there, maybe. It’s a lot to take in, Henry, I’m not going to lie.” 

He couldn’t help but flinch at that. He _had_ lied to her, so many times. 

Jo sighed. “Let’s start over. Tell me more about Abigail — how did you meet her?”

Henry had been so focused on how Abigail had died... how long had it been since he’d let himself remember how she’d _lived_?

Jo reached across the table, nudged the bottle of Macallan out of the way, and squeezed his hand. “This isn’t an interrogation, Henry, I just want to get to know you again.”

Henry’s throat worked. How long had it been since he’d told the real story? One that was wholly true, with no modern veneer, no fabrications, no false identities?

Jo deserved the truth. 

They both did.

“Abe was the one who introduced us,” Henry began, “although he was too young to remember at the time. Abigail was a nurse during the war, and she found us both...”

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn’t figure out how to tie off the threads of Abigail’s story without dealing with the way it all ended. In that vein, about the non-canonical dementia... I know it’s totally tragic, but it felt somehow less heartbreaking than the idea of Abigail just up and leaving. A sacrifice play, misguided though it may be, felt like something she would do. 
> 
> I do hope the happy parts outweigh the sad. As Abigail herself said: “Who cares how it ends? Life is about the journey, no matter how long it lasts.”


End file.
